A simple story about a gyro and it's ironic (but not so laconic) maker...
Several weeks ago, needing a quick lunch while running errands, I stopped at a little sub shop in a nearby shopping center. I was pleased to see that this little shop also offered gyros, in three different sizes no less, ranging in price from $3 to $7.50. I took a gamble that the $3 size and a drink would be enough to satisfy me.
Although there were only about 5 other people in the place when I arrived, my simple order took over half an hour to arrive, and by the time it came, I was annoyed.
Then I bit into that gyro, and it was the best damn gyro I’d ever eaten. The gyro meat and sauce were flavorful, the veggies were fresh, and the pita was perfectly grilled. I immediately forgave the talkative cook/co-owner who made it for me for taking so long.
Fast forward to this week, when I stopped by again, craving that delicious gyro. There was the same talkative cook and only one other customer in the joint. The cook was sitting in the booth beside the lone customer, railing on about something.
Surprisingly, when I walked in the cook immediately said he remembered me from Mother's Day (I wasn't actually there), declared that he liked me and would take care of me (my order, that is).
I had about 45 minutes for lunch before I had to pick up my children from their summer program and get back to work. Remembering that the cook liked to move leisurely, I let him know in a friendly way that I only had a short time to eat. No problem, as long as I knew what I wanted, he assured me, I would get in and out in plenty of time.
No problem on my part then -- I knew I wanted another taste of that $3 gyro and, since the gyro was so cheap, I could afford to treat myself to the good-looking french fries I had seen his other patrons chowing down on during my last visit. Maybe even get a dessert, too.
But no, he said. He didn’t have the $3 size pita bread in. He only had the $7.50 size. “Okay,” I said, “just cut it in two for me, and I’ll save the other half for my lunch tomorrow. No, he said, he couldn’t do that. Instead, he’d just make two small gyros.
Confused, I grabbed a black cherry soda out of the cooler across from the grill and sat down, anticipating that delicious gyro. I reiterated that I needed to leave shortly, and hearing a fresh plop and the sizzle of more meat on the grill, was content that my gyro would be on its way to me soon.
I waited. The lone other patron sitting next to me waited. We chatted. I asked him what he ordered. A philly cheese steak, he said. The cook chatted with the man, too, as he seemed to putter around his “kitchen.” His cooking area and the refrigerator where he stored all the condiments and sandwich veggies were inefficiently across the room from each other. He walked back and forth from the kitchen to the fridge, talking all the while as he went.
When I told him that I came back to his place because that last gyro was the best I’d ever eaten, he let open the floodgates. He’d been cooking since he was a kid, and was as good as any chef before he had reached his teens, he advised. He wouldn’t hire anyone in his place to help him in this kitchen, because he was a perfectionist, and no one would do things the way he wanted. Plus, all the people that applied for jobs with him seemed too lazy, and they would undoubtedly talk too much and drive him crazy. He couldn’t handle it, he said. No. No way would he ever hire these people who came to him seeking a job. They would just drive him crazy.
Sometimes, he said, even his own customers drove him crazy. They wanted their food too fast; they couldn’t make up their minds what they wanted to eat. They were like little children. He didn’t have to like them. But not to worry, he liked me, and the gentleman who was still waiting patiently for his philly steak sandwich.
I looked at my ipod. The minutes were going by and I was getting worried. Neither my sandwich nor the gentleman’s seemed to be arriving anytime soon. I reminded the cook, now steamed up by his own conversation, that I needed to leave within the next 25 minutes at the most – my kids were waiting. He assured both me and the gentleman that the food was coming out in just a moment.
We waited. He talked. He was a great chef, he said. He used only the best ingredients. Like real steak for the philly steak, and cucumbers and tomatoes fresh from the garden. Not just anyone could do what he did, he said.
Hoping to get his juices flowing enough to move a bit faster, I asked him if he liked the Bravo reality show, “Top Chef.” “Yes,” he said. He particularly like the “Quick Fire” challenges. “The Quick Fires show who the real chefs are. Real chefs do not have assistants, and they do not cut themselves, ever. Not ever.” He walked across the room to get some items from the refrigerators and headed back to the kitchen, talking the entire time. He had opinions about everything.
At some point, he finally handed the man next to me his philly steak sub. The man jumped up and, with payment already on the table, bolted out of the shop. I was left still waiting.
Not to worry though, I thought, surely if the other guy had his sandwich, mine would also be handed to me momentarily. After all, I had heard it sizzling on the grill. A couple minutes later, when it still had not arrived, I reminded the man again that I had to leave. No problem, he said, he would have it for me in just a couple minutes. Then more meat hit the grill. Almost 40 minutes had passed and he was just now cooking my food!
A few more minutes passed. I got up from my seat to see what he was doing. He was chopping the lettuce and the tomato. I informed him that it was so late now, that I would have to take my order to go. I was hoping to eat it there while it was still hot, but I’d take it to go now.
He checked the fries in the fryer. He took the meat off the grill. He contemplated the lettuce, deciding that the lettuce should be chopped just a little bit more. He talked about his chefiness. He went into another room to get a to-go container. He readjusted the tomatoes in the sandwich. He got out the sauce. He ever so carefully wrapped the gyros. He tenderly placed them in containers. I looked at my watch. He checked the fries. I paced.
Finally, he packed up the fries and the gyros and handed them to me. With a cheerful smile, he said he hoped that he hadn’t made me too late.
I was off. By the time I picked up my kids (late) and got back to work, I had eaten most of the fries, my food was cold and soggy, and I ended up having to take more leave than I had planned.
When I finally got to that gyro, guess what? It wasn’t so damn good anymore.
Photos are borrowed from the Flikr Creative Commons community and do not represent the actual event.
Photo credits: Gyro by Marshall Astor. Hidden Chef by Tracy Hunter.
